


this is so you'll know the sound

by fragileanimals



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, The Gang Finds A Dumpster Baby: Rogue One Edition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:33:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragileanimals/pseuds/fragileanimals
Summary: Never in Jyn's years as a partisan, her time as an outlaw, or even in her current post with the Rebellion has anyone even remotely expected her to possess the ability to care for a child.Until today.(Or, Jyn and Cassian find an abandoned infant after a mission goes sideways, and the Rogue One crew must temporarily care for it.)





	1. this one's for the lonely child

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much to rach (leofjtz) for beta-ing this!! could not ask for a better girl, 10/10.
> 
> title and chapter title are from sara bareilles' "satellite call."

Jyn Erso is, by all accounts, a difficult woman to surprise. 

In her twenty-two short years, she has borne witness to a great bevy of sentient behavior, and it has left her little room for naïve hopes or childish expectations. She has come to expect trouble where there is promised to be none, to read intentions in the twitch of a hand, the turn of a head. The blink of an eye. And, though she can’t always predict the exact direction from which difficulties will come, her instincts are honed to the razor-sharp edge of a vibroblade. A stray blaster bolt, an unanticipated ambush, a truncheon to the side-- all dangerous, all commonplace, and she expects them.

There are, after all, only so many ways a mission can go wrong. Only but so many variations on a common theme, and she has seen all of them, most more personally than she would have preferred. 

That said, never in her years as a partisan, her time as an outlaw, or even in her current post with the Rebellion has anyone even _remotely_ expected her to possess the ability to care for a child.

Until today, that is. 

It happens like this: Their contact on the small, Imperial-held moon of Folia Prime doesn’t answer the door at the prearranged time. 

Concealed in the growing shadows, Cassian waits nearly a minute before knocking on the thick wooden door for a second time. Three sharp, uneven raps that Jyn knows to be code as she stands behind him, facing the opposite direction, watching for movement or passerby. 

As the evening fades into night, however, the narrow alley is deserted and altogether unassuming. The building in question itself is somewhat lopsided, leaning against a row of other cramped, tilted houses. It’s an ideal location for a safe house, Jyn thinks, absently, according to Saw Gerrera: small, indistinguishable, easily missed.

When the second knock goes unanswered, Cassian shifts them both farther into the shadow of the large doorframe.

Jyn eyes him from under her hood. Even in the dim light his apprehension is obvious; to someone who didn't know him, his expression might simply appear blank, but she can read the tension in the weary lines of his face. 

This is not, clearly, part of the plan.

“How well do you know this guy?” she asks, low. Hoping, for his sake, that they do not have any particular history. 

His mouth tightens, pressing in on itself. “He’s reliable,” is all he says. 

He reaches around her to try the handle, and she tries not to shift as the fur trim of his coat brushes her face, waiting until he’s not looking to pick the tiny hairs from her mouth.

“Door’s unlocked,” he murmurs, a moment later, turning back to look at her. His breath warms her cheek, making her overworked nerves twitch. She buries her face in the soft folds of her scarf. 

If Cassian’s expression had been tense before, it is absolutely stony now. Jyn’s eyes dart to the door and back, a question.

As always, he seems to know what she’s thinking even before she thinks it, and he gives her a small nod. Raising a finger to his lips, he uses the other hand to ease the door open just wide enough for them to slip through.

When the interior of the cramped house comes into view, Jyn buries her teeth in her lower lip. Even in the watery moonlight, it is clear that what had once been someone’s dwelling is now floor-to-ceiling destroyed, worn furniture littering the ground in mismatched pieces and plates smashed in chunks. Even the rough wooden flooring is torn up in places.

She jumps at a sound by her shoulder, but it’s just Cassian closing the door behind them.

She turns toward him as he half-leans against it, dragging a hand through his sweat-stiff hair. Taking in the destruction around them, he looks even more weary than usual, and Jyn wonders when last he’d slept. It’s easy, when moving around as much as they do, to lose track of time. Especially when all the planets have different days, different cycles--

He swears under his breath, and she’s jolted from her thoughts. 

When she looks back to his face, his expression has solidified into something grim and resigned-- and, with the scene around them, it’s not hard to see why.

The wrecked house says: _Someone dangerous came looking._

+

They make their way quickly through the deserted first level. Everywhere they look, in every tiny pantry and cabinet, the destruction is homogeneous, meticulous-- the work of Stormtroopers.

Jyn spots a stripe of red on one of the doorframes. When she touches the tip of her glove to it, it comes back dry, but the blood doesn't flake off the wood. That, and the lack of settled dust speaks to a raid conducted recently-- possibly within the past few days.

On the narrow stairs leading to the second level, glass crunches under their boots, overloud in the silence.

This floor had clearly fared no better, and a quick peek into the first two cramped rooms reveals no one and nothing but disarray.

The third room, however, the one at the back, gives Jyn pause. Even from the hall it appears darker than the other rooms, and she steps inside to find the shades tangled and drawn, broken furniture arranged haphazardly around the door as though someone had attempted to construct a barricade.

She pauses, steeling herself for what she already knows she will find. Then, before she can think, she presses her hand to the light panel on the wall, and immediately swears.

In the middle of the room, illuminated by the single naked bulb: a body.

With a tilt of her head, she beckons Cassian in. He peers over her shoulder, standing close enough for his breath to disturb the flyaways at her cheeks, then brushes past her and into the room.

Crouching beside the body, he takes a long look, calculating and devoid of emotion. Then, shoving the shoulder, he turns it face-up.

The man by sight is unknown to Jyn, but the depth of Cassian’s frown tells her everything she needs to know.

Though his face betrays nothing, Jyn can’t help but notice that Cassian’s hands move with marginally more hesitation than usual, as he searches the pockets of the man’s jacket and fatigue pants. He had known him, then. Perhaps they had been-- well, not friends, but acquaintances. Business partners. 

Before standing, he slides two fingers across the man’s half-open eyes, closing them beneath the dark hole burnt through the skull. Jyn turns away.

The next few moments are spent in silence, as he rifles through the meager contents of the contact’s pockets while she keeps an eye on the window. The light is almost gone, which means curfew will take effect soon. They need to get out of here before then, or they’ll be trapped until morning, or worse-- caught in the streets and imprisoned.

Cassian huffs under his breath, drawing her attention. “Nothing here that will help us,” he says, when she raises her eyebrows. “Just some personal notes and false papers.”

False scandocs, they have in abundance. She knows that much. It had been Imperial trades routes they were after, points along the shipping lines vulnerable to a well-placed attack.

But there's no way to know where the contact had kept them, or if the ‘troopers had relieved him of them, and they're running short on time. 

Jyn’s body hums with adrenaline, and she practically paces the room, peeking out to the alley again from behind the thin curtains. Her thrumming heart says, _Get out of here._ Whatever information there was once to be gained here is lost to them now. It is time to cut their losses and run-- the longer they remain, the more danger they invite.

Jyn presses down the button on her comm, opens her mouth to tell Bodhi to get the ship ready for takeoff. But, before she can say a word, a noise stops her.

It’s neither loud nor particularly intrusive, perhaps an animal cry-- but it’s out of place all the same, and more than enough to spook them both. They go still, bodies tensing, and Cassian’s hand slowly curls around grip of his blaster. For a moment they just stand, hushed and straining for sound.

It comes again, soft but present, and definitely closer than the alley. They fan out to opposite sides of the room, switching on their flashlights.

In the dimness, Jyn knocks her ankle against what must the wall and swears under her breath. Kriff, if there isn’t anything she hates more than darkness. She can function in it perfectly, of course, just as well as she can in the daylight -- thanks to Saw -- but no amount of training can transform a person’s ingrained preferences. If she were the kind for self-reflection, she might think that it reminded her too much of the first day and night she had spent alone, age eight, in a cave with nothing but her rucksack and a dying lantern.

But she’s not, so she doesn’t, and when she shifts her flashlight she finds she's actually stumbled into a little recessed space she hadn't accounted for, so narrow and unobtrusive it's almost invisible.

Huh, she thinks. Hadn’t noticed that before. Sweeping the beam across it, she pauses when the light hits possibly the only intact piece of furniture in the entire house. Her mouth drops open when she realizes the true cause of her stumble.

Her heart thuds, painfully, once. “Cassian,” she whispers, her throat suddenly as dry as Jedha’s desert. 

He’s at her elbow in less than a second, brow furrowed in concern. “What’s--” He stops when her fingers reach his wrist, squeeze once; he follows the beam of her flashlight down, down past the slats to the bottom of the wooden cradle before them.

“Oh,” is all he says.

+

The baby is human and young and very small. 

She is also most likely female, judging by the shade of her blanket, and, before Jyn can stop herself, she is reaching into the cradle to touch her fingers to the soft fabric.

Vaguely, she remembers once having a blanket like this herself. One of a deeper color that had matched her bedclothes, which she had loved, she thinks, to carry around with her, one corner tucked into her fist, the rest trailing behind her-- over marble floors and brown dirt alike. Try as she might, though, she can’t seem to remember what had happened to it-- had it been left behind on Coruscant when her family had fled in the night? Or did it even now remain in her tiny bedroom in the cold plains, gathering dust?

The girl’s milky infant eyes fix on Jyn’s face, wide and watchful. Her tiny rosebud mouth trembles, just this side of crying, and Jyn feels a pang thinking of her here all alone, surrounded so early by such death and destruction.

She swallows, twisting her head to look back to the man on the floor. He’s splayed out on the floor in the indignity of death, legs twisted, arms reaching for nothing. “You think he’s her father?” she asks Cassian, low. Withdrawing her hand from the blanket, she shifts her body between the cradle and the dead man.

He doesn’t answer immediately, still considering the contents of the crib, the lines of his face tight with consternation. Finally, he shrugs, seemingly at a loss for words. “I have no idea,” he says, slowly, dragging a hand through his beard. “There are no records of a child at this location.”

Jyn chews her bottom lip. “She's pretty young,” she says. “Might not have had her ‘docs processed yet.

“How could the ‘troopers have missed her?” he murmurs, after a pause. More to himself than to her, his voice equal parts sad and bemused.

“She’s sort-of hidden in the corner over here,” Jyn says, inclining her head to the small alcove. “Maybe they just didn’t see her.”

She waits for a reply, or for him to turn and look at her, but Cassian is still staring into the cradle, as though drawn by a tractor beam. It takes her bumping his elbow with hers to get his attention.

“So,” she starts, slowly, already knowing she won’t like his answer, “What are we going to do?”

Cassian sighs. When he speaks, he sounds much older than his twenty-six years. “This,” he says, gesturing to the destruction around them, “was done recently. Which means we need to get out of here as soon as possible, report the mission as failed.”

Jyn’s frowns. “And what of the girl?”

Cassian looks at her, helpless, palms up. “Jyn--”

“We can’t leave her,” she says, white-knuckle gripping the railing of the cradle. It’s wooden, delicately carved with all manner of tiny flowers and curling vines. It is so clearly a labor of love, it makes a patch in Jyn’s chest ache.

As if she knows she’s the current topic of conversation, the baby chooses this moment to let out an ear-piercing shriek. They both tense, looking through the thin curtains for movement in the alley.

Cassian turns back toward her then, resting an elbow on the rim of the crib. For once, his struggle is plain on his face, instead of buried under several layers of detachment. “Jyn,” he says, and it’s quiet, it’s the voice he uses when he’s trying to placate her, which makes her bristle instinctively. “I have other contacts here-- I can transmit a message once we’re off-planet.” His face is so earnest, she has to look away. ”They will come for her, I promise you.”

“We can’t leave her,” she repeats, stubbornly. Crossing her arms.

“We can’t take her,” he argues, leaning closer, so that she must choose between meeting his eyes and stepping up. “We’re in no way equipped--”

And that’s as far as he gets, because before he has the chance to say anything else, the front door crashes in.

Jyn swears, her eyes snapping back to him. “‘Troopers,” she says, needlessly, because they can already hear the clacking of Imperial armor a floor below, blasters almost certainly not set to _stun._

For a moment, old-Jyn rises in her throat, and the urge to charge _toward_ the sound of breaking glass is nearly overwhelming-- it’s hard to believe the squad downstairs is any other than that responsible for this devastation, for leaving a child fatherless, and a part of her aches to make them bleed for it.

But then comes Saw’s rumbling voice in her ear, _Pick your battles,_ and the tightness in her chest eases.

Beside her, Cassian doesn’t react as quickly as she expects. He just stares at the infant for a moment more, makes a sound in the back of his throat, and she can practically see the cogs in his head turning as tries to decide what to do. Then, before she can even process it, he’s picked the girl up and tucked her beneath his zippered coat.

Jyn blinks, opens her mouth and closes it again. The sound of boots grows louder, and she knows they must be only seconds away from discovery. She doesn’t waste time wondering how they had been found; even on such a moon as small and inconsequential as Folia Prime, Imperial eyes are everywhere.

“Let’s go,” he says.

To return the way they came will undoubtedly feed them into the path of the ‘troopers, so they’re forced to exit through the window. Though it’s painted shut, the job is somewhat flimsy, and with a few hard shoves the glass opens out onto the shingled roof. Jyn climbs through first, then hovers at his elbow as he steps out, balancing his weight as well as the infant’s. She shuts the window behind them as quietly as possible.

They travel over rooftops until the first blaster shot rings out, singeing the shoulder of her coat. She swears, dropping low, taking cover behind an old-fashioned chimney. He does the same, eyes skimming over her, checking for injury.

But she shakes her head. _Just my coat,_ she mouthes, and he nods. He spares a glance inside his own coat, checking on the baby, and Jyn sees a flash of wide eyes in the darkness.

Then, _“One, two, three,”_ Cassian counts, under his breath, and they’re on their feet again.

At the end of the row of houses the hard-packed dirt comes up almost to meet the edge of the roof, a drop of no more than two or three meters. She drops down first -- the only sound her huff of breath on impact -- then looks to him, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

Under normal circumstances, she would hardly bat an eye at the distance-- she’s seen him leap from heights twice that and land, catlike, on his feet. But this time he’s carrying a very delicate bundle, and, as she’s learned through her own trial and error, even the smallest added weight can skew one’s sense of balance.

When he makes it safely to the ground, her heart thumps slightly harder than exertion alone can justify.

Once in the street they slow to a walk, mimicking the brisk pace of the sparse passerby hurrying home to avoid curfew.

Should pedestrian give them more than a cursory glance, their foreign status would be apparent, with Jyn’s illegal blaster gripped tightly by her side and the lopsided bundle tucked under Cassian’s coat. But the truth is that hardly anyone gives them a second look, the civilian population too beaten-down to risk lifting their heads, too afraid of what they might see or whose eye they might catch. And, though she has never been to this particular corner of the galaxy before, Jyn sees herself in them, _before._

It’s a strange feeling, to look in on herself from the outside. How many Rebels had she passed in the same manner, she wonders, in the years when she had considered the only worthwhile cause to be her own? What would it take, she thinks, to get every soul on this moon to rise up in indignance, as she had?

Every now and then ‘trooper chatter erupts a few streets over, staticky bursts that make Cassian frown and Jyn tuck her head farther into her scarf. It’s impossible to forget how vastly they are outnumbered by Imperials; their only advantage is that the squad on the roof hadn’t gotten close enough to see their faces.

Their closest call comes as they cross the main avenue. Around it, the city is divided into halves, and it is the only street with artificial lighting. Because of its transportation significance, it is expensively and artificially lit during the night hours, and ‘troopers stand at every corner, long rifles clanking at their sides.

In the daylight, it had been easy to slip into the swell of humanity here. When the air had been loud and fogged with a thousand competing breaths, they had been only two in a multitude-- unnoticed and unnoticeable. But, now, mere minutes before the curfew siren, the street is deserted, and they stick out like a third horn on a bantha.

When Cassian steps off the low curb, it must jostle the baby, because from under his coat comes a first shuddering breath, the beginning of a wail. The sound makes her tense instinctively, but she keeps walking -- as does he -- taking refuge in the shadow of the building opposite. Knowing that to do something as simple as stop in the middle of the street would be seen by the Imperials as an admittance of guilt.

Still, “Halt,” says the ‘trooper at the corner nearest, when they’re just about halfway across. “Who goes there?”

A pause, in which Jyn closes her eyes, briefly, mentally ticking through every combination of foul words she knows. When she opens them again she sees Cassian has stilled beside her.

He hesitates before turning, and in that barely-perceptible moment she feels the frustration radiating off of him, the frustration of being _so close,_ of having come so far only to be discovered. It is a sensation she is well-acquainted with, but that does not make it any easier to swallow.

They could easily kill this soldier, she knows. If they ran, they might even make it a few streets over before the alarm could be properly raised-- but certainly no farther, even with her most optimistic projections. Jyn does not need K-2 to tell her the odds; to murder an Imperial stormtrooper in the main square of the city would bring a full squadron down on them in less than a standard minute.

So she chooses the option marginally less likely to end with the pair of them dead in a gutter; she reshapes her face, molding it with conscious effort into something unnatural and unfamiliar, letting her face go blank and slack, eyes round with terror. 

Beside her, she knows Cassian is doing the same. It never ceases to confound her, how quickly he can unmake himself, erasing all traces of the hardened spy or hopeful rogue she knows. If it weren’t vital, it might disturb her more than she cares to admit.

As innocuously as possible, she edges in front of him as they retrace their steps, attempting to disguise the unnatural shape beneath his coat.

When he hands over the forged scandocs, Jyn has to resists the nervous inclination to shift her weight. The documents do not include mention of a baby.

“Tourists,” the ‘trooper finally says. “We don’t get many of those here.” He’s still holding their docs, and makes no move to return them, obviously requiring an explanation.

Cassian opens his mouth, but Jyn says, quickly, in her best imitation of the moon’s unique inflection, “We have family here.” She curls her lips up into what she hopes is a convincing smile.

“Can’t choose where you come from,” Cassian adds, evenly. There’s a note of warning in his note, but it is so subtle it undoubtedly goes unnoticed by all who do not know him as she does. He bumps her back where the ‘trooper can’t see, and she presses back.

The ‘trooper just hums, a discordant, modulated note in the otherwise-silent night.

It takes what feels like an eternity, but eventually they are cleared. “Get indoors before curfew,” the ‘trooper says, handing over the scandocs. “Policy here is to shoot trespassers on sight.”

_How can civilians be trespassers in their own city?_ Jyn wants to ask, but she bites her tongue. It would be beyond foolish to jeopardize their success in order to have the last word, she knows it would, but she can’t help the desire to plant her boot directly in the center of his chest.

She nods her reluctant thanks and crosses the street on shaky legs.

+

By the time they reach the outskirts of the city, the darkness is complete. Relief fills in Jyn’s chest when she spies the treeline, jagged against the night sky, knowing that Bodhi is waiting a mere kilometer away on an abandoned landing pad. If she listens hard, she thinks she can hear the hum of the engines.

On this particular moon, the bulk of the Imperial presence is concentrated in the urban sectors, and not much effort is made to secure the perimeter of the city. Logistically, it is for good reason-- beyond the limits is only frigid forest, too dense and cold and lightless to make any sort of proper living in. One simply could not last in such a harsh environment without significant support, support that would eventually draw unwanted attention.

It is, however, a perfect location for an illegal rendezvous-- a fact they had been counting on.

The baby had been quiet the rest of the way, but now, as they approach the landing pad through the frozen underbrush, a small whimper comes from Cassian’s direction. Jyn lifts a brow, deadpans, “You all right?”

“Don’t look at me,” he says, his breath a puff of white in the freezing air, and she grins. 

+

Back on the ship, Cassian quickly unzips his coat and hands off the child to a surprised but willing Bodhi, taking the latter’s seat in the cockpit in order to make the jump to hyperspace. It is just the three of them this time-- Chirrut and Baze had stayed behind on Hoth to continue their work training recruits, and K-2 had, to his dismay, been due for a routine diagnostic.

Normally, of course, Bodhi would be the one piloting-- but upon seeing their startled expressions when he had innocently suggested they find a place on the ship to settle the infant, he had volunteered his own child-care services instead.

“I’m good with them,” he had said, in his quick, nervous way. “Uh, children, I mean. Babies.”

“Excellent,” Jyn had said, relieved, watching Cassian gingerly lift the girl from his coat and pass her to Bodhi. She, by her own admission, can count the number of times she’s been near an infant on one hand.

The baby rests in Bodhi’s lap without complaint, still swaddled in her soft blanket. Her fingers, perfect in miniature, grasp at Bodhi’s long ones, but lack the strength to grip them. He coos at her, oblivious to Jyn’s gaze, and the baby opens her mouth, letting out a small gurgle.

“Where did you find her?” he murmurs, not taking his eyes from the tiny face.

Jyn opens her mouth to tell him about the trashed safe house, but before she can get the words out, a sudden thought makes her stomach drop. Before she knows it, she’s on her feet, nearly running toward the cockpit. She hears Bodhi call out after her, but doesn’t answer.

Absorbed in his calculations, Cassian doesn’t immediately turn toward the sound of her heavy footfalls on the metal floor. But he must hear her, because he asks, “All right, Jyn?” his hands hardly pausing at the keys.

“Wait,” she says, breathless, grabbing onto the back of his chair. “Cassian, wait,” she says. “We can’t go just yet.”

“If we don’t leave, we risk discovery,” he replies evenly, his eyes still on the control board. “You know that.”

“Yes, but--” She hesitates, trying to straighten out her jumbled thoughts into coherence. “This is her home,” she says, finally, desperately. “If she has family, they’re here. If we take her, they’ll think she’s dead.”

At this, Cassian’s fingers falter, but only barely.

“We could orbit for a few days,” she continues, all in a rush. “Or land on a nearby friendly planet, come up with a better plan there.” She knows she’s reaching, knows her efforts are futile. But she can’t help but hate the idea that someone could be out there looking for their baby, unable to find her, while they’re about to carry her halfway across the galaxy to Hoth.

He makes one last keystroke, then finally swivels to face her. Jyn feels the ship shudder under her and actively resists looking out the viewport, not wanting to see the stars as they blur. “Jyn, what did you think was going to happen?” he asks, not unkindly. “Earlier, when you wanted to take her. You must have known we would have to take her off-planet.”

Her hands curl and uncurl at her sides. Coming from anyone else, this line of questioning would make her bristle, defensive-- but his tone is curious rather than superior, so she tells him the truth. “I don’t-- I’m not sure,” she manages. Deflated, “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

She can’t bear the sympathy in his eyes any longer, and drops her gaze to the floor. Studies the scrapes and scratches on her leather-imitation, Alliance-issue boots. She’d fought to keep her own boots -- real leather, already broken-in and worn-soft -- after she’d accepted her official position, but in the end protocol had won out, as it is apt to do, even though it had meant the replacement of something of quality with one mass-produced.

“Jyn,” he says, quietly.

“Cassian,” she retorts, but there’s no fire in it.

From the entrance to the cockpit, Bodhi coughs. Jyn scuffs the tip of her boot against the floor.

Cassian casts a glance in Bodhi’s direction, then lowers his voice so only she will hear what follows.

“Jyn,” he says, again, and his voice is neither spy nor captain, only Cassian. His left hand twitches nearly imperceptibly on his lap, as though drawn toward her and recalled at the last moment. “I give you my word, if she has any surviving family. I’ll do everything in my power to get her back to them.” He pauses, giving her room to think. “All right?”

Shifting her weight, Jyn considers it. She searches his face for duplicity, for dishonesty, already knowing she’ll find none; just dark, tired eyes and a mouth set in determination. Very few promises are worth anything to her, she thinks, but he more than most has proven himself to her.

It’s still not ideal. She’s not _happy,_ but she’s long since accepted the reality that, more often than not, there are no easy resolutions for missions that go this far sideways. Though her stomach still twists with distress of possibly removing a young girl from her family - however temporary, however good their motives - his words have set her slightly more at ease.

“All right,” she says. _Unspoken, I believe you._


	2. tonight you're not alone at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends!! here is chapter 2!! my apologies for taking so long-- at the end of august i left for a semester of study abroad and it's been a whirlwind since then. i hope you enjoy this!!
> 
> chapter title is from "satellite call" again.

In the main compartment of the ship, Jyn watches Bodhi hold the baby with an strange tension in her chest. There’s something so natural in the way he cradles her to him, something she doesn’t understand; he fits the girl’s small body against his shoulder as if he’s been doing it all his life. It’s comfortable, it’s easy, and it’s nothing Jyn has any frame of reference for, which for some reason makes her as curious as it does anxious. 

And, for all she knows, she realizes with a guilty pang, Bodhi has been doing this his whole life. Not for the first time, it occurs to her that she knows next to nothing about his home life, his world outside of Imperial piloting or Rebel action, other than that it had struggled for years only to be incinerated in a flash of blinding light and a torrent of rock. She should be better, she thinks, at knowing these things.

When he finally tears his eyes away from the infant and looks to Jyn, there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She feels her own lips curve up in reply— even she cannot resist his sheer guilelessness. Her eyes skate over the girl as well, taking in her soft pink skin and round cheeks especially.

And Bodhi must confuse the look in her eyes for longing, because he asks, “You want to hold her?”

Jyn rocks back on her heels. “Oh, I—” She shakes her head, unable to come up with a coherent reason for her refusal— except, perhaps, that she’s never so much as been in the vicinity of an infant this long and wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do with one in her arms. “No. No, thanks,” she says. “I’m good.”

She crosses her arms over her chest— hands made for theft, for violence. For brutality, neither meant for nor worthy of something so delicate. Still, she can’t take her eyes from the girl’s face; she’s watching her now, transfixed.

“Are you sure?” Bodhi asks. Something in her own face must give her away, because he says, “You won’t hurt her, I promise.” He takes a hesitant step closer.

Jyn takes another step back. “I’m fine,” she protests, weaker this time. But it’s too late— his long strides have already carried him definitively into her personal space. Anyone else, she’d have already sent sprawling, but it’s Bodhi, and he’s preparing to shift the baby into her completely useless arms.

“Bodhi—” She swallows, throat dry. “I really can’t.” Her cheeks feel hot, and something rises in her throat, struggling to get out, but she doesn’t move away.

“Bend your arms,” he says, gently.

She does not bend her arms. She just stares at the girl, at those eyes, dark and somehow wise, like someone else she knows.

“Bend them,” Bodhi says, more firmly this time, “or you’ll drop her.”

She hesitates, then brings her arms up near her middle at mechanically sharp angles, a poor reflection of Bodhi’s relaxed hold. Every instinct is screaming at her to pull back, to refuse, but she’s frozen, too frightened and too wondering to move.

“Relax them a little,” he says, with a little smile, oblivious to her internal struggle, “or she’ll roll right off.” He reaches out with the baby, testing Jyn’s arms. Somehow satisfied, he begins to transfer her over, settling her in the crook of Jyn’s arm. “Let her head rest against your chest,” he says, easily, as though it’s nothing, as though he’s giving her instructions on landing a ship and not handing her an entirely defenseless human being. “And support— support her neck with your hand. Yeah. Like that.”

Jyn hears all of these things as though through a long tunnel, his voice distant and distorted. When Bodhi finally pulls back, Jyn’s left the sole bearer of the negligible weight, both heavier and lighter than she expected. She lets out a ragged exhale, trying to ignore the sudden trembling in her legs.

“She’s small,” is all she can think to say. At her voice, the baby squirms, adjusting to her new position, and Jyn freezes. She stares at the tiny face, so perfectly formed, at the wisps of dark hair feathering her head. A soft spot pulses on the top of her head, and she touches a fingertip to it, struck by this terrible vulnerability.

“Well, er— she’s a baby,” Bodhi says. He wraps his long arms around himself, now that they have nothing to occupy them. “Babies are small.”

Cognitively, she knows that. Biologically, it makes sense, of course — though it makes her consider just what comes out of where — but she’s never had any real application for that knowledge until now. The only infants she’s ever seen have passed by on busy streets, all she really knows of them she’s gained through mere glimpses. They seem, she thinks, so much more breakable up close.

“How do you know all these things, Bodhi?” she asks. Aiming for nonchalance, as though her knees aren’t practically knocking together, arms straining to remain absolutely still. “How are you so good with— all this?”

“My mum was a midwife,” comes the immediate reply, and there’s a distinct note of loving pride in his voice that makes her look up. “Also,” he adds, “lots of brothers and sisters.”

Add that to the list of things she had not known about him.

Jyn gives him a little smile, but a familiar loneliness settles in her chest. She’s never had any brothers and sisters. Never known what it’s like to share the burden of being her father’s daughter, her mother’s hope; she has always known herself to be an accident of sorts, though a well-loved one. Or, as her mother had said: a surprise.

As a little girl, she had not understood why she could not have the siblings she so desired. Especially on Coruscant, when their living had been comfortable, she’d seen other little girls her age on the city streets, holding hands with brothers and sisters, and they’d looked so happy, and she’d _wanted._

“Not now, Star-Dust,” her father had always said. Bending down to her level, his large, gentle hands on her shoulders. “Maybe someday.”

Of course, someday had never come. And, by the time Saw had come for her in the cave on Lah’mu, all thoughts of siblings had been firmly in the past.

A small sound brings Jyn out of her reverie. As she watches, the baby opens her small mouth in what could be a yawn, but then her face wrinkles and she starts to cry. It starts soft, like a cat’s mewl, but quickly builds in volume until Jyn’s eardrums feel fit to burst.

Her heart seizes. “What’s wrong?” she asks, panicked. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Bodhi assures her. “Sometimes— Sometimes babies just cry.” He pauses. “Or, actually, she might be hungry,” he says. “Do you have any idea when she last ate?”

She shakes her head. “Do we have anything for her?”

“There’s condensed bantha milk in the rations,” Bodhi offers, raising his voice to be heard over the baby’s shrieks. “I think?”

“Can we give her that?” Jyn asks, equally loud. She frowns, wishes she could cover her ears, but her hands are quite currently occupied with making sure the baby doesn't squirm its way out of her arms.

“Yes, we can,” he says, head bobbing an affirmative nod. “In fact, it’s the next-best thing to mother’s milk. Or— that’s what Mum always said, anyway.”

“Okay,” she says. She really has no idea whether that’s even vaguely correct— but it’s Bodhi, so she’s more than willing to take his word for it.

Then, “Stay here,” he says, quickly, hands spread in front of him “I’ll be right back.”

Jyn feels a flash of panic at the idea of being left alone. “No, wait,” she says, “I’ll go.” She shifts toward him to pass off the baby, but he waves her off. 

“No, no,” he says “It’ll— it’ll only take a second. Just— stay there. I’ll be right back.” Before she can reply, he disappears around the corner, leaving her standing with a shrieking infant in her arms. 

“Bodhi!” She cranes her neck after him, helpless. _Kriff, how do people do this all day?_

Bodhi either does not hear her call, or chooses to ignore it. She sighs, looking down at her screaming, squirming bundle.

“Please stop crying,” she says.

The baby does not stop crying. She only screws her tiny face up tighter, turns redder.

Just as Jyn’s seriously considering following after Bodhi, a sudden hand on her shoulder makes her jump. The noise must have masked Cassian’s already-light step, because she hadn’t heard him approach at all; she whirls around, automatically defensive. Her instinct is to draw the baby in closer, which only serves to make her cry harder.

“Don’t _do_ that,” she manages. “Cassian, for kriff’s sake.”

Cassian’s brows shoot up, and he takes a step back. Looking as though he might be fighting a smile, he raises his hands in a show of surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says, seemingly unfazed by the racket. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to see how you and Bodhi were doing.”

“We’re fine,” she says, a little more sharply than she’d intended, her heart still beating double-time. Then, “Shouldn’t you be up front?”

He shrugs. “Nothing for me to do right now,” he says. “I’ve made contact with Echo Base to let them know we’re coming and set the coordinates. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

She nods, shifting her grip on the wriggling baby.

“Where is Bodhi?” he asks, then, with a small frown, looking around as though he’s only just noticed the lack of the third key member of their abridged team.

“He’s gone to get rations from storage,” she says. “He thinks she’s hungry.”

“Oh.” Cassian frowns. “Can babies have those?”

Jyn shrugs. “Beats me. They can at least have bantha milk, according to Bodhi.” 

She winces as a strand of loose hair tugs at her scalp, grasped in the girl’s tiny hand. She inclines her head, hoping to shift it free, but then Cassian’s fingers are there, carefully untangling it and tucking it back behind her ear.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, dipping her chin.

“She’s got quite a pair of lungs on her,” Cassian says, after a moment’s pause. His hands hang at his sides, now, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “For being so small.”

“You can say that again.” Jyn decides to change her tactic, pacing a few steps this way and that, trying to see if the movement will calm her. “And Bodhi went and left me alone with her.”

“You’re doing fine,” he says. It’s a little gentler, a little harder to hear above the squall. “He wouldn’t have left her with you if he didn’t think you capable.”

When she meets his gaze, his expression is strange, eyes oddly soft in a way that makes her twist like a p’rink worm on a hook.

“Well— thanks,” she mutters, for the second time in as many minutes. “I guess.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re welcome.”

The ship whines under their feet, rattling as they make their way among the stars. Cassian says, with a gesture toward the cockpit, “I should get back.”

Jyn nods, quickly, shifting her weight to her back leg. “Yeah. Right, of course.”

They stand there for a moment, Jyn holding the baby, still screaming, against her chest, Cassian looking at his boots. When he moves, it is not in the direction of the cockpit; instead, he steps closer to Jyn, so close that she can smell him, blaster oil and dirt. He does not look at her as he lifts his hand as though to touch the top of the girl’s tiny head, and for some reason she finds herself holding her breath. At the very last moment, however, he pulls back again, something having shifted.

He turns on his heel and she watches him go, rooted to the spot.

+

The bantha milk works as promised. A few moments after Cassian leaves Bodhi reappears, apologizing profusely, holding a packet of the condensed material and a glass of thin blue liquid.

“It took me a few tries to get— to get the proportions right,” he says, as he holds up his hands, rueful. “Shaky.”

Jyn feels a pang. She wonders, momentarily, if he’d had the tremors before his appointment with Bor Gullet. She suspects not— what Imperial officer would hire a pilot with trembling hands? That thought in turn threatens to bring her back round to Saw, but then Bodhi says, “Turn her toward me, please,” and it fades.

Jyn continues to hold her, by now hardly noticing the noise, as he feeds her through what looks like an eyedropper.

“It was all I could find,” he says, regretful, but Jyn just shrugs.

“Seems fine to me,” she says. Luckily for the both of them, the baby has to choose between eating and crying, and, for now, she has chosen the former. Her ears feel thick in the blissful quiet.

It’s not long before the baby’s eyes become noticeably heavy, and she begins to turn her head, refusing more. Jyn looks to Bodhi for guidance, and he stows the in his pants pocket and reaches out. “I’ll take her, for now— if that’s all right,” he offers. “Try and find a quiet spot to lay her down.”

“Sure, of course,” she says, plenty eager for once to cede control. She hands the girl over, and Bodhi tucks her against his neck, which she snuggles easily against. He passes through to one of the small storage rooms, hardly bigger than a cabinet, leaving her standing with an unfamiliar ache in her arms.

+

Baze, Chirrut, and K-2SO are waiting in the hangar when they dock a few hours later.

As they pull in, Jyn presses her face to the viewport, grinning as Chirrut waves, lifting her own in response. In the co-pilot’s seat, Bodhi holds the baby in his lap; after another feeding and a series of small naps, her mood has significantly improved, and she rests without complaint on her soft blanket. 

When they disembark with one passenger more than on the log, Baze’s shaggy eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. As they approach, he inclines his head toward Chirrut, and though they are still too far to make out the words, she assumes he is describing the turn of events to the blind man— who simply nods as though he knows, the corners of his mouth lifting serenely.

“I sensed a presence,” he says, in greeting, “before you even departed the ship.”

Beside her, Bodhi’s jaw drops. “You did?” he asks, shifting the baby more firmly against his shoulder.

Jyn and Cassian exchange a look, unable to tell if he is being facetious. She suspects not— something she does, in fact, know about Bodhi is that the beliefs and superstitions of the Holy City cling to him even now, a source of constant joy for Chirrut and amusement for herself and Baze. She does not consider herself an unbeliever, necessarily, certainly not in the Force— but sometimes she suspects Chirrut takes loving advantage of his innocence and gullibility.

Behind Chirrut, Baze rolls his eyes, and Jyn smothers a smile of her own. K-2SO lets out a long, electronic whine that might be a sigh.

“I did,” says Chirrut, unflappable as always. Passing his staff to Baze, he reaches his arms out. “Bring her here.”

With a slip of a smile, Bodhi passes her over. He leans his tall frame in, peering into the tiny face. Baze steps closer, too.

As Chirrut’s sightless eyes linger over her, his face grows uncharacteristically serious. “She has great difficulties ahead,” he murmurs.

Jyn chews her bottom lip. Who among them doesn’t?

“She’s young,” Baze grunts, with a shrug. “She’ll live.”

As the three of them ponder the girl’s future, K-2, who has been uncharacteristically quiet until this point, sidles up to herself and Cassian.

“Cassian,” K-2 says, “you are needed most urgently in the War Room. I have instructions from General Draven to deliver you there without delay upon your arrival.” Before Jyn can protest her exclusion, he says, drily, “You as well, Jyn Erso.”

In a rare display of fatigue, Cassian scrubs a hand over his face. A crease develops in his brow. She wants to touch her fingertip to it, but almost as quickly as it had appeared, it’s gone.

“All right, Kay,” he says, straight-backed and steel-eyed. “Take us to him.”

+

The General is, as always, less than pleased with the fruits of their mission.

They’re standing in their heavy coats, piled into the base’s makeshift War Room. Post-briefing, most everyone has filed out, save herself, Cassian, General Draven, and Senator Mothma; they remain to discuss what will become of the infant.

“I feel I’ve been more than patient with you— _both_ of you,” General Draven is saying, pointedly casting a look at Jyn, which she returns with equal displeasure, “since the events of Scarif. I managed to keep you out of a nasty court-martial for your blatant disobedience—”

 _Disobedience that brought down the Death Star,_ Jyn thinks, nastily, crossing her arms over her chest.

“—as well as allowed your little ragtag band to stay together despite the headaches you’ve caused for the Rebel Alliance.” He pauses, spreads his hands out on the table in front of him. “But— a baby, Captain?” He squints. “What were you thinking, bringing her here?”

Blood rushes in Jyn’s ears, flooding to her cheeks. “What alternative—” she starts to say, hotly, but Cassian silences her with a look. _Let me handle this,_ his look says, and she clamps her unwilling mouth shut again.

“I was thinking,” he says, evenly, “that she’d be killed if we left her behind.”

A look passes between them. General Draven remains somewhat of an enigma to Jyn, but in this she reads his disappointment loud and clear. 

“You used to be better than this,” he says, after a long pause. His eyes flicker over to Jyn again, accusing, and she meets them with a steady stare. Then, “I’m not unsympathetic,” he says, sounding almost entirely so. “But she cannot stay here on a permanent basis. After the losses sustained on Scarif and Yavin, we have neither the manpower nor the resources to support her. This is a military base, not an orphanage.”

Cassian’s lips turn up at the corners, nearly imperceptible, and suddenly Jyn sees him at all of fourteen, sharp-boned and newly-recruited from a ravaged Fest. 

_Could have fooled me,_ she thinks, hard, at Draven. The Rebel Alliance had long maintained disdain for Saw’s Partisans for myriad reasons, but one of the oft-mentioned transgressions was his unrepentant use of child soldiers. In Jyn’s eyes, however, the Alliance is equally at fault; they could call it by a different name, _recruitment,_ or _civilian assistance,_ but ultimately they too have children fighting for their cause. So what is the difference?

All Cassian says is, “We know, sir.” Voice calm — calmer than Jyn feels, certainly — hands clasped behind his back. “It’s only temporary, sir. Until we can locate a surviving relative and return her to them.” _If there are any left to find,_ he doesn’t say, but she knows he’s thinking it all the same.

The general leans forward. After a long moment, he says, “She’ll be your responsibility,” his tone a statement and a warning. “This will not impact your workload or mission schedule. You will be expected to maintain the same caliber of work as before—” a hard look at Cassian “—am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Jyn says, at the same time Cassian replies, “Perfectly.”

A silent observer at the general’s side, Senator Mothma’s lips twitch.

Draven straightens. He takes a final long, sharp look at the pair of them, before finally saying, expression unreadable, “Dismissed.”

+

“I don’t like him,” Jyn says, needlessly, when they’re out of earshot. They’re still news enough, the surviving Rogue One crew, to carve a path in the halls of Echo Base, and they pass easily through the crush of people.

“Oh, really?” Cassian asks, mildly, his arm brushing up against hers despite the ample room. “Since when?”

She rolls her eyes over to him.“Since always,” she says. “Ever since he had me busted out of the prison camp on Wobani.” _And ordered my father killed,_ she doesn’t add, not wanting to stir up old guilts. “He just— he cares more about the Rebellion than the people in it,” she says.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily it,” Cassian says, slowly. “His job requires him to think about the survival of the Rebellion — the galaxy — as a whole. He needs to prioritize the needs of the many over the few and sometimes he can…” 

“Be kind of a dick?” Jyn mutters.

He huffs out a laugh. “I was going to say _lack perspective_.”

Jyn rolls her eyes. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“I would too, though,” he says. “I think. If I were in charge of that many people. If I had to send people to their deaths all the time.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she says, and it’s automatic, before she can think. Just before she ducks her head down, embarrassed, she sees one side of his thin mouth lift in a smile.

“Well, I still wouldn’t want his job,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

She hums in agreement, and he bumps her shoulder into his under her thick coat. She nudges back. And if she lingers too long, leans into him a beat more than usual, he doesn’t seem to notice.

+

“We can’t keep calling her _the baby_ ,” Jyn says, later, when they’re all packed like gulley fish into her bunk. It’s after dinner, growing late, that lazy hour between dinner and meetings that has come to be collectively theirs, and the baby rests on top of her blanket on Baze’s wide lap, tiny fingers grasping at the frayed ends of his coatsleeves. Her eyes fix on his face, unblinking, and Jyn thinks the normally stony line of his features looks softer than usual.

“What should we call her, then?” Bodhi asks, scratching at the back of his neck. “She already has a name, we— we just don’t know it.”

Jyn shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. She casts her eyes around the little group. Cassian, seated on her dresser and fiddling aimlessly with a datapad, doesn’t look up, but his fingers slow on the screen.

“Mèimei,” Chirrut offers, after a moment’s thought.

Bodhi inclines his head, considering, but Baze counters, “How will Jyn know when we are talking to her?”

From the floor beside him, she dips her chin, unable to keep the small smile from her face. She’s had many names over the years, some true and some false, but never has she had a nickname other than the one her father had given her, which tugs at her chest with a pain she both cherishes and avoids. Alternatively, _little sister_ is safe and warm, filling the spaces in her mind with bright light— and in it, she can almost find the siblings she had so yearned for.

“She’ll know,” Chirrut says, primly, “because we won’t be asking the baby when she gets off her next shift.”

Bodhi snorts, and the girl wriggles contentedly in Baze’s lap, as though she knows she’s being talked about. Baze himself opens his mouth, undoubtedly to argue further, but Jyn spares them all with a decisive, “I like it. We’ll add it to the list.”

The metaphorical list, of course, as none of them are actually writing anything down. Between the five of them and K-2, she’s sure they can remember a few names.

“I’ve always liked the name Shandra,” Bodhi says, tentatively, his long fingers pulling nervously at one another. “It’s pretty.” A pause, then, “I don’t— I’m not sure if it fits her, though.”

“That is a beautiful name as well,” Chirrut says, with his usual magnanimity. 

“I say we name the child HU-121 and be done with it,” says K-2, flatly, from his position in the corner of the room. He is obviously uncomfortable in the small room — or as close to it as a droid can get — his tall frame pressed against the wall, slightly hunched to accommodate the low ceiling.

“Any other suggestions?” Jyn asks, ignoring him. “Or should we vote?”

There’s a pause, and then,

“Luz,” Cassian says.

He’s been quiet until now, and the remaining heads in the room swivel as one, surprised to hear him suddenly speak. At the sudden attention, he appears to regret having spoken at all, his lips nearly disappearing as he presses them together.

“Luz?” Jyn asks, breaking the somewhat-stunned silence, testing the name on her tongue. It doesn’t sound quite the same, when she says it, harsher and less musical.

“The zed is— softer, I think,” Bodhi suggests. “Say it again?” he asks, but it’s gentle, a request.

“Luz,” Cassian says, a little softer, a little slower, dragging it out for their unpracticed mouths. Eyes on his hands, as if he’s embarrassed. “It means _light_.”

Jyn doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t think anyone else does, either, but suddenly there’s a bright spot in her chest, gathering warmth. For Cassian to share with them a piece of his personal history, from his home world and language, without prompting— it’s _something_.

“I like it,” Baze says, eventually. His gruff tone is, as always, unreadable, but he raises his one large hand in the mimic of a vote. A gesture swiftly mimicked by the rest of the room, including a sullen K-2, until Jyn’s left looking around the room counting hands.

She doesn’t say anything, but she catches Cassian’s eye for a brief second, before he drops his gaze. She thinks his neck, the tips of his ears are more flushed than usual, but it could be the cold.

“It’s settled, then,” Jyn says, a smile spreading slow across her face. “Luz, it is.”

+

The first few days with Luz are hit and miss. 

It’s to be expected, Bodhi assures them: she’s young, but not so young that she can’t tell the difference between her mother and father and these new strangers, and interstellar travel can wreak havoc on even the most experienced of bodies. She’s restless, exhaustingly squalling— but she’s also adjusting, as they all are, to this new reality.

Just when Jyn thinks she can’t take another sleepless night, the worst seems to be over. The establishment of a routine begins to work as promised, and the baby finally seems to warm to them. She begins to know, if not their faces, then their voices, their particular footstep and cadence.

All except Cassian’s. He hardly shirks his duty and is as present as the rest of them, but all the same he’s a step removed— emotionally, if not physically.

At first, Jyn writes it off as the product of his busy schedule, the fact that his post calls him away with more frequency than the rest of them. But that’s not quite it— he hovers, watchful, but never gets within arm’s reach of the girl. Hasn’t since the night they’d found her, and she can’t quite pin down why.

It’s her turn with Luz now, and she’s sitting in her bunk with the baby laid out in front of her. It’s remarkable, she thinks, how quickly she herself has adjusted to this new situation— but then, she’s always been adaptable.

Bodhi’s wealth of knowledge makes it easier on her, too, and his faith in her goes a long way in making her more comfortable. She still feels a small thrill of fear whenever Luz is left in her care, but it’s nothing like the overwhelming nerves she had the very first time she had held her. 

After all, Bodhi had told her, babies have the same needs as the rest of them: sleep, eat. Shit, she had added, then, making him blush. And Luz has done that in excess. 

All in all, it hasn’t been as she’d thought it would be, especially since Jyn’s invested in a good pair of earmuffs for when the girl is in an inconsolable mood regardless of what or whom she is offered.

A knock at the door startles both Jyn and the baby. They jump in unison, the former craning her neck around to peer at the door. 

“Come in,” she calls, making no move to get the door. Anyone she’s willing to see will already have the code.

Before she can turn her attention back to the files in her hands, Cassian pokes his head into the room. 

“It’s me,” he says, and behind him she can see the outline of K-2’s lanky form.

Jyn jerks her head, once, inviting them in.

It’s been a few days since she’s been able to see Cassian for more than a few moments, so she lets her eyes skate over him appraisingly as he makes his way in. As he leans up against her dresser, unconscious to her watching, she takes in the lines of his face and the hair falling over his forehead. He still looks as though he’s not sleeping, and part of her thinks, maybe, if he would let her, she could do something about it.

“Doing all right?” he asks, as he always does, voice hesitant as it always is, as though he’s afraid the asking will send her running for the next shuttle off-world.

“Yeah,” she says. As she always does.

“We were just walking by,” Cassian says, at the same time K-2 says, “Cassian wanted to ensure you and the baby were not experiencing any troubles. I, for once, wanted to be sure the girl was, in fact, still alive in your care.”

“Appreciate the confidence,” Jyn says, snidely. She wishes, not for the first time, that it were just herself and Cassian in the room; anything they say with K-2SO in the room feels abridged, as though they’re holding something back, even if they have nothing of consequence to share.

Luz’ small hands reach up for her, and she absently extends a pinky so that the baby can take hold. Her is still weak, but strengthens with each passing day, and Jyn can’t help the smile that blooms on her face; that something, someone so small and innocent wants to touch her at all, isn’t afraid to— it’s confusing and disarming all at once.

She looks up to find Cassian watching her intently.

“Do you want to try?” she asks, noticing the way his eyes linger on where the baby clings to her hand. 

He hesitates. “I’m not good with kids.”

“That is categorically false,” K-2 intones, and Cassian gives him a look.

Jyn’s interest is immediately piqued, but all she says is, “She’s not too picky.”

“That’s reassuring,” Cassian says. He makes no move to come closer, but Jyn gently tugs her finger away from Luz to allow him to try.

This is the wrong move. At the sudden loss of her plaything, the baby opens her mouth and _howls_ ; Jyn quickly returns her pinky, dangling it in front of her face, but to no avail. The cries are quickly building to a fever pitch, that intrusive wail that has sent no less than five noise complaints to her door. 

“Would someone,” K-2 intones, still standing as far from the baby as possible, “kindly make that infernal noise cease.”

“Would if I could,” Jyn says, waspishly. Inwardly cursing herself, she rubs a thumb along the tension headache she can already feel forming between her eyes, throbbing with every high note. And she still has two standard hours of care left, so she can’t even pass Luz off to anyone else.

This is the worst bit of the job: when the baby isn’t hungry, or thirsty, or wanting for anything in particular — Jyn can already tell the difference in those cries — but is just restless. On some level she understands; she’d been told many times how fussy of a child she’d been, and she thinks, if she were stuck in a strange place in a body that she couldn’t command, she’d have a few choice words as well.

Still, she drops her hand into her hands with a muffled groan.

But only a moment later, something incredible happens: Luz’ crying stops as quickly as it had begun.

Jyn’s eyes pop open in surprise, and land on Cassian, who’s staring back at her, confused and almost guilty, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have or didn’t mean. 

The baby, meanwhile, has ceased all crying. She’s simply staring up at Cassian, now, her wide dark eyes fixed squarely on him; his hand, so large and rough in comparison, is curved around her tiny head, one thumb resting on the soft cheek. 

Jyn lets her shoulders fall back against the wall with a thump. “Well, look at you,” she says, slightly incredulous. “Who knew Cassian Andor had the magic touch?”

His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. For a moment, he seems at a loss for words. “Certainly not me,” he says, shaking his head, but all the same he does not remove his hand from the baby. Jyn even thinks she sees him give a little sweep of his forefinger over the wispy dark hair.

“Cassian is being modest,” K-2 interjects. “He is excellent with children. He has even successfully delivered one, and in the midst of a mission—”

“Kay,” Cassian interrupts, shooting the droid a look. “That’s _enough_.” He lowers himself to sit on the end of the bed, dropping his eyes from hers as though embarrassed.

Jyn’s jaw drops. “Wait, is that true?” she asks, head swiveling to K-2, “Kay, is that true?”

“Indeed,” the droid says, and Cassian grimaces.

“He’s making me sound better than I am,” he says. “I didn’t really do anything.”

Jyn inclines her head, requesting more.

“She was a... civilian,” he says, as though the words are being dragged out of him, eyes fixed steadily on the tip of the baby’s head. “Who went into early labor when the fighting broke out. I mostly just held her hand.”

Something Jyn is unaware of is: he had stayed because she had reminded him, rather painfully, of his mother. Or, of what he remembered of his mother, at least— long brown hair in a single braid, dark eyes, proud nose.

“You’re kidding,” she says, shaking her head at him. But she doesn’t disbelieve him, not really. It’s perfectly within what she knows of his character to jeopardize his mission to stay with a woman in labor— he had, after all, climbed stories with a broken back for a near-stranger, just to ensure she survived.

He tucks his chin, mumbles something that sounds like, “I couldn’t just leave her.”

“Yes, you could have,” Jyn says. _But you didn’t._

That is, she thinks, one of his defining characteristics: self-sacrifice. All the things he could have done to ensure his own survival, but hadn’t. _Could have_ left a strange woman to have her baby alone. _Could have_ shot Jyn’s father clean through the head. _Could have_ chosen not to follow Jyn herself directly into the mouth of the Imperial Army.

Cassian shrugs one shoulder, looking discomfited. “Well.” 

“Did they live?” Jyn blurts out, before she can stop herself. She doesn’t know exactly why she asks, hadn’t meant to. It makes her sound like someone she doesn’t know. “The mother and baby. Did they make it?”

She almost wants to hold her breath for the answer, but his half-smile gives it away.

“Mother and baby both survived,” he says, his free hand splaying on Luz’ blanket. “It was a boy.”

Jyn leans back, resting her chin on her knee, studying him with curious intensity. “Imagine that,” is all she says, a small smile playing at the edges of her lips.

He looks back at her. “I don’t have to,” he says, and her smile widens. 

Every day, it seems, she learns something new of him that only serves to make her like him more. And she’s no fool— she knows he’s killed just as viciously as she, as cruelly the rest of them; she can hear him sometimes at night, reliving those memories twofold. She too has the dreams, but in them she doesn’t see the faces of the ones she’s killed, rather the ones she’s lost. She rarely thinks of the ones dead at her hand; to her they’re mostly unavoidable, collateral. 

But Cassian knows his. He knows them by name, and he forgets neither the good nor the bad, and this is how she knows as surely as the stars above that he has a good heart under all of this grime.

“You’re really something, you know?” she says, nudging his thigh with the tip of her boot.

He gives her a quick, private smile. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, you are,” she says, and it’s too difficult to look at him, with this bright spot burning a hole in her chest. She fiddles with a loose string on her pant leg, he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets.

Neither of them says anything. They just watch Luz on her blanket, leaning into Cassian’s hand, innocent to all the violence so near.

Then,  
“If that’s all,” K-2 says, and Jyn detects a note of exasperation, “we really must be going.”

“Oh, _must_ you?” she asks, mocking, but Cassian nods.

“Unfortunately, Kay’s right,” he says. He moves to stand, taking his hand from Luz, but slowly, so he won’t startle her. “Meetings. I just wanted to come by and check on—” He pauses. “The baby.”

“Well, rest assured,” she says, “we’re fine.”

“Since Cassian stopped the girl’s crying, you mean,” K-2 clarifies.

Jyn rolls her eyes. “Yes. That. Thank you for that.”

“I told you, I didn’t do it on purpose,” Cassian says, looking sheepish. K-2 is already half-out the door, apparently having abruptly reached his limit with Jyn today. She’s more or less fine with that.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jyn says, shaking her head. “You still did it.”

He just shrugs, helpless, which makes her laugh. The movement shakes the bed slightly, making the baby wriggle.

She feels as though she should say something else, something important, but the words don’t come. So she just says, “See you at dinner?” 

He nods, moving to follow K-2 out into the hall. “See you at dinner.”

She waits until he’s in the hall, then, “But if she starts crying again,” she calls, “I’m coming straight to you.”

She hears him laugh as the door shuts behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to say,, i actually don’t know that much about child care so i am playing FAST and LOOSE with what can and cannot be given to infants as a milk substitute but let’s all just go with condensed bantha milk as a viable option, okay? cool cool cool
> 
> also, this may or may not become 4 chapters. i'm not sure yet, but it definitely MIGHT. stay tuned!! i'll do my best to not take a month to put up the next chapter. also, this was unbeta'd so if you see any glaring errors pls let me know!!!
> 
> as always, if you have time to spare, i'd love to hear your thoughts. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> sorry that this chapter is mostly setup-- the REALLY GOOD STUFF TM starts happening in the next chapter!! i promise you'll have so much skinny love jyn/cassian watching the baby and thinking about WHAT IFS you won't be able to deal. and also, baze and chirrut and k2 will show up, of course.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! if you have the time to spare, i'd love to hear your thoughts. ♥


End file.
